They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity.

Imagination, like reality, has its limits.

Everything was such a damned nice idea when it was an idea.

Certain blood was being shed for uncertain reasons.

Did I choose this life of illusion? Don't be mad. My bed was made, I just lied in it.

I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.

What sticks to memory, often, are those odd little fragments that have no beginning and no end.